


The Three C's

by First_Duchess



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Explicit Sexual Content, I really can't think of anything else I'm brain dead for this, M/M, Scent Kink, Sex in the woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22593805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/First_Duchess/pseuds/First_Duchess
Summary: Geralt remembered not of his mother’s telling of second genders, but he did recall being taught a great deal (and in detail) at Kaer Morhen. He remembered what Vesemir had said about how Omegas would present themselves to who they desired.Still, Geralt of Rivia never anticipated this.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 1957





	The Three C's

**Author's Note:**

> this probably took me like two weeks to write and i have like ideas for 3 more fics for this fandom that has taken over my liFE  
> let the record show that my only knowledge of this fandom is based on the netflix series. maybe once i have more of a mental capacity I will dabble in the books.

There were many things that Geralt, as a certified Witcher, did not understand about typical humans. There were even more things he did not understand of atypical humans. And there were plenty more that he did not understand about Jaskier the bard. His dramatization of his hunts, his dramatic outfits, his dramatic expressions. 

And damn it all, his dramatic over use of perfumes and soaps. If it was scented and able to be applied to the skin, Jaskier had a vial, tub, or some other container to hold it in. 

And it wasn't just one scent, oh no. That'd be asking for too much for Geralt’s sensitive sense of smell. The bard liked to mix and match, and regardless of any combination, it had made Geralt consider on multiple occasions to have those potions and lotions go “missing”. The only thing keeping him from doing so is he knew the bard would lose a marble or two, and then Geralt would never hear the end of it. But Geralt could swear that every time he turned around, Jaskier was applying something scented to behind his ears, his wrists, his neck. Geralt knew Jaskier preferred the finer things in life, but not even some of the higher class individuals that he did jobs for could come _close_ to how attentive the bard was being in this regard.

The only thing more annoying was the bard’s whining.

“Geralt,” the bard groaned for what had probably been the upteenth time that afternoon, “if you’re going to keep this pace up, the least you could do is let me ride Roach for a while.”

“Hmm,” was Geralt’s typical reply, and Roach snorted herself.

“C’mon, you sod! You have the stamina to walk around day in and day out, not me!”

Geralt rolled his eyes, “I never said this would be comfortable, bard. Let this be a reminder that _you_ chose to accompany me.”

Jaskier waved his hand. “Oh, spare me. You and I both know that if it wasn’t for my ever energetic and eccentric self, you would be bored to the high heavens!” 

“You can keep telling yourself that.”

“Geralt! This cranky behavior is surpassing your typical mood! I dare say, you need rest more than--”

Jaskier cut himself off by stepping off the poor excuse of a path just by a small amount, causing his weight to be distributed unevenly and he stumbled. And he _heard_ more than felt his ankle do something that was quite, well, unpleasant.

“Son of a whore!” The bard hissed in pain, crouching down and eventually sitting himself on the ground completely. He grinded his teeth in discomfort, eyes tightening shut as he tilted his head forward and rested it on his knee. 

Geralt, in all honesty, was not compelled to turn around at Jaskiers’s exclamation--he thought the bard had simply tripped, nothing more. It wasn't until he heard a lack of crunching along the path behind him, accompanied with a smell that was purely distasteful (like that of sour milk, a probable result from whatever the bard had done), that he pulled on Roach's reins to a stop. He looked over his shoulder and spotted the other man on the ground some odd yards back. With a heavy sigh, Geralt dismounted his steed and led her over to his travel companion. 

“Jaskier, this isn't the time to be upset about ruining a shoe.”

“Fuck the _bloody shoe_ , Geralt! My ankle feels like it was taken through a meat grinder.”

The Witcher rolled his eyes and kneeled down, assessing the situation. After some prodding and hellish yells from the bard, the offending footwear was removed to reveal slight swelling. His eyebrows crinkled and a frown accompanied it, a look of concern that was (hopefully) being confused for aggravation. When he went to feel it, Jaskier responded with such a reflex that Geralt didn't dodge the slap to the side of his head. 

“The hell are you doing, you half-boiled chicken!”

Geralt rolled his neck and stood, “Trying to see if it's broken. It's not. Stand.”

The bard looked up at him with a look of disbelief, and Geralt again rolled his eyes before lifting the man and hoisting him onto his shoulder, resulting in an undignified squawk. 

“Unhand me you bloody oaf! Or I swear I'll--”

“You'll what, hm?” Geralt got Jaskier situated upon Roach, smirking at him slightly. “You'll spit on my name for aiding you? Perhaps hit me with your offending instrument?” 

Jaskier sputtered, “Neither of my instruments are offending.”

Geralt hmm’d, very well assuming whatever the other instrument may be, and began pulling gently at Roach’s reins, “It'll be sundown soon. There will be flatter ground ahead to make camp. Just don't fall off of Roach if you can help it.” 

Jaskier muttered something lowly, along the lines of “fucking witchers”, and Geralt smirked a little more out of eyesight of the disgruntled bard. Roach whinnied in amusement, earning her a pat on the neck by her owner. 

* * *

As the sun began its descent over the crest of the land, Geralt assisted in lowering Jaskier from the back of Roach. And with the bard’s insistence to _not_ be thrown over his shoulder like a damsel, Geralt brought Jaskier’s arm around his shoulders and wrapped his own around the other’s slender waist. Carefully the two made it over to a fallen log. Not soft, but at least not damp and mossy, so it will do. 

When Jaskier began situating himself upon the log, a drawn out groan escaped his lips. Obviously due to pain or discomfort, but something in Geralt twinged at the noise, his eyebrow hiking up. Thankfully the other was too absorbed in his plight to give any notion of noticing. 

“ _Please_ tell me there is some sort of Witcher magic to help me,” Jaskier pleaded, sweat beading upon his brow despite the chill from the sun setting. He shifted once more, cursing himself for doing so and lolling his head back. 

Geralt quirked his eyebrow in amusement now, tilting his head at the suffering man, “Not necessarily Witcher magic, but I have a thing or two.” He eyed down at the other’s left foot. It had swollen noticeably more and had darkened in color slightly, and would look worse tomorrow if something wasn’t done about it. “Let me get camp set up, then I’ll find you something.”

Jaskier nodded hastily, leaning back in the sturdy trunk of a tree behind him and closing his eyes, doing whatever he possibly could to not feel the pain in his foot. Geralt went about tying up Roach and unloading necessary items—bed rolls, provisions (it helped to trade fresh game for dried meats every now and again), a makeshift tent, moreso to pitch against the wind. Thankfully it was a drier time of year, so worry of a downpour was slim to none. Dry sticks and leaves made a fire easy work, and Geralt found some berries he had stowed away in an appropriate pouch. He sifted through his bag, pulled out a vial with purple-tinted liquid, and strode back to the bard. 

When Geralt knelt down to be eye level with Jaskier, the other opened his eyes, and the Witcher could see the sullen discomfort in his friends light blue eyes. He was growing feverish, likely from the pain. His brown locks were starting to stick to his forehead and his breath was coming short, probably to manage the throb in his ankle. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck, and Geralt followed it with his amber eyes nostrils flaring slightly as he smelled the salt in the air. 

Geralt also noticed a citrus scent lightly wafting from the man, but paid no mind. Another perfume he hadn't noticed earlier due to the horrific stench of the bard’s pain, probably. 

“Listen, this vial is potent and not easy on the stomach. Take it slowly—“ Jaskier grabbed the vial from the white-haired man in a flurry, popping the cork out with his teeth and taking it in one go, and almost retched immediately after. Geralt shoved a modest handful of the berries into his mouth. 

“You fucking idiot, you never listen,” Geralt chided, although with no real malice. “Your stomach is going to be worse than a fish in a barrel.”

Jaskier swallowed and smirked at him, pale and sweaty and somehow _illuminated_ by the moon peeking from the clouds, “Thanks, good friend.” He clapped the other on the shoulder and Geralt blinked at the physical contact. “So, how long for it to work?”

 _I’m not your friend,_ he wanted to say, but the words died on his tongue, opposite of the fire crackling behind him. Instead, the white wolf huffed, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, “By morning it will be sore but not intolerable.” 

Jaskier nodded, seeming satisfied, then shifted uncomfortably. The potion had a categorized instant pain reliever in its ingredients, and Geralt was interested in the face Jaskier was making. Surely the man couldn't _still_ be in terrible pain. That vial was enough to ebb Geralt's own worst aches and battle wounds. 

The bard swallowed heavily before speaking, “S-say, Geralt, could you fetch me my pack? It was attached to the back of the saddle, a smaller one than the larger I carry alongside my lute.” 

Geralt eyed the man and looked back at Roach, who was grazing contently, and returned his eyes back to his pale friend, “I unloaded all bags. There wasn't another bag.”

Jaskier looked like a gaping fish and licked his lips, “A-are you sure?”

“Are you not trusting my word?”

“N-no! Of course not! I'm just---I’m deeply saddened by that. All of my perfumes and soaps and the like were in that bag.”

 _Thank the gods, known and not._ “I'm sure you will be able to replace whatever contents were in that bag. It's possible you left it on the ground where you were sitting.”

Jaskier smiled nervously, “Ah, yes, easily replaceable! Not a worry.” He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted his gaze away from the golden eyes staring at him. The turn of his head caused a light waft of cedar to drift towards Geralt. It was pleasing, but Geralt paid no mind, assuming again it was merely a remainder of whatever he applied to his skin prior. 

“The contents of that vial will work better and faster if you rest quickly.” The witcher stood, unrolling the bedroll near the fire and then eventually having the bard situate himself comfortably. At least, as comfortably as possible. 

“G-geralt, I will be _fine_! You take the bedroll! I’m sure you would like the relaxation!”

Geralt gave the bard a funny look before standing and going to his swords. Might as well sharpen them if he was going to be without disturbance for an unusually long amount of time. “Jaskier, you know I do not require as much sleep as the average human. And that medicine will knock you out whether you like it or not.” As he walked back to sit on the log Jaskier was seated on prior, he was met with a small snore, and he smirked slightly as he began tending to his weaponry.

* * *

Geralt remembered not of his mother’s telling of second genders, but he did recall being taught a great deal (and in detail) at Kaer Morhen. 

See, Witchers had a funny relationship with their second genders. The trials resulted in whoever that survived to present as Alphas, with a select few presenting as Betas. Alphas have an innate instinct to conquer and claim, to protect and to _breed_ , yet Witchers are incapable of providing children. That made it unlikely to be desired by any others for the most part, aside from physical attributes. And whoever was beside a Witcher typically did not remain there long, which was a blessing in disguise Geralt deduced, as Witchers are constantly on the move, in danger, and live longer than most. That doesn't bode well for a typical being to raise a family. 

Geralt had been with any and everybody, any and everything, Alphas (Yennefer and Renfri) and Betas (common brothel residents) alike. Omegas were few and far between, and he never ran across them. They were probably kept locked in a tower or hidden by magic in order to protect them. They were treasured like a family artifact and cherished just as much, if not more. Geralt had heard what scenting an omega would be like, _especially_ if the omega in question was subconsciously trying to get your attention. 

But Geralt of Rivia never anticipated _this._

The moon was high, signaling the peak of the night. The clouds had dispersed and took their leave, leaving sparkling stars to accompany the full moon in all of its glory. It was calm and still around him, save for the chirping of crickets and the crackling of wood. After tending to his swords, he checked over his armor and, after deciding it would suffice for another battle or two, Geralt went about meditating. He was too high strung to eat, to sleep. Not with Jaskier laying across from him, tossing and turning and making almost obscene noises, a scent of salt and _man_ and _Jaskier_ being released into the air. A fever dream, it was. Geralt was certain. 

Until about thirty minutes into his meditation where he inhaled deeply, and was immediately _slapped_ in the face by something else entirely. His eyes snapped open, pupils dilated and scanning, settling on the source of the aroma. Leaking freely from the slumbering bard like juice out of a ripe peach as soon as teeth breaks its skin. And damn it all if Geralt didn’t just _lick_ his lips imagining it.

Citrus. Cedar. Cardamom. And Geralt felt his mouth water, goosebumps flaring up his arms as the short hair of his neck stood on end. He immediately felt hot, itchy, like something was under his skin just begging to taste freedom. He felt his cock swell, felt a growl in the back of his throat, tried to swallow it and failed miserably. And he knew that this, _this_ is what Vesemir had alluded to. 

An Omega in heat. 

Geralt had not thought to ask Jaskier of his secondary gender. It wasn't much of a conversation starter, and the White Wolf barely conversed in the first place. If he was an Alpha, that was a surprise. He just safely assumed the bard was a Beta. It was logical---the man was good at charming and pleasing many women (and men) in bed. Never a territory establisher, always trying to invest his energy in the happiness of others. And his scent never made Geralt think otherwise. 

Wait.

“ _Fuck,”_ Geralt muttered under his breath. All those potions and lotions, soaps and perfumes. It clicked now. Jaskier was hiding his scent from Geralt. And he didn’t think it was out of fear. Sure, Geralt had smelled fear on Jaskier before, but never as a direct result of Geralt doing something towards him. The bard trusted him, even more than he seemed to trust himself. The human was confident, but looked to the Witcher for advice, would ask questions to further increase his knowledge of things that were unknown to him, even if all he got was a routine ‘hmm’ in response. And some things the bard did made _more_ sense now. Geralt had never been treated with the tenderness of this magnitude (at least without paying coin first). The talented lute-trained fingers detangling his hair, kneading out his deepest knots, working over him like a baker with dough, making him _melt_ like fucking butter. Always insisted that Geralt ate first, bathed first, even tried to get him to _sleep_ first even though Geralt didn’t always _need_ these things as much as Jaskier so desperately did. There were times where Jaskier would insist on Geralt having a part of his meal, even if he heard the man’s stomach talk in protest. Before they started sharing sleeping spaces, he would offer Geralt the bed at inns, even when he was torn apart with exhaustion, even when it was _his coin_ that bought them the damn room that night. He tended to Geralt’s belongings, patching his clothes and bags without being prompted, doing his best to find ingredients for potions and slurries and salves he had _learned_ _to make for Geralt so he wouldn’t have to spend so much coin buying them himself_. Geralt didn’t even know _when_ Jaskier learned from apothecaries, and it wasn’t until Jaskier’s bag tipped over at a camp they pitched one day that he realized Jaskier had a book with notes and pressed in ingredients with details of their usage and benefits, and what works with what best. Some even detailed how to bloody cook the damn things.

And don’t _even_ get him started on how Jaskier talks to Roach like _he_ does, brushes her with care like _he_ does. And Roach _lets_ him, whinnies at him with delight when Jaskier sneaks her a treat he had bought from a stable boy in the last town they visited.

There was only one explanation for this.

“Geralt, you are fucking stupid,” the White Wolf mumbled lamely to himself, being met with a groan in response as the man in question lolled his head towards him, eyes cracking open, and the flames danced so wonderfully in his gray-blue eyes.

“You should still be sleeping with that potion running through your system.”

Jaskier eyed him with a gaze that cut right through him, and Geralt could _feel_ Jaskier on him despite him being a few feet away. The poet licked his lips and slowly sat up, gaze never leaving the Witcher, and he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“Alpha…” Jaskier rumbled softly. “You know I am in distress yet do not approach.”

When Jaskier addressed him as _Alpha_ , Geralt almost lost it. He swallowed his predatory growl with force.

“Jaskier...I, we--” _We haven’t talked about this. You don’t want this. You don’t want_ **_me_ ** _._

“Tell me, Geralt of Rivia…” Jaskier’s voice dripped down the Witcher’s spine like honey, and the bard situated himself on his hands and knees to make his way over to him. And holy _shit_ if that wasn’t a sight to behold. He put his hands on Geralt’s knees and sat up on his haunches, eyes searching. “...what do I smell like to you?”

“You smell like…” Geralt bit back a groan as Jaskier tilted his head, showing a slightly swollen gland along the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Fuck, _Jaskier_ , you smell like..citrus and wood and _spice_ …”

The bard grinned devilishly, “Huh, Betas and other Omegas have told me that I smell grassy and clean, like springwater. Pleasant, but a bit much for their palate.”

 _They will smell different to others if they are subconsciously calling for you_. 

And he was right. Grassy and clean sounded good, but a bit _too_ pure, too _innocent_ . And his perfumes had too much _lemon_ or _moss_ in its scent, too much _jasmine_ or not enough _rose_ to balance it. But this bright, lip-smacking orange and the bone-warming cedar and spice had him aching from the inside out.

Jaskier was calling out to him. 

It hit Geralt like dipping molten iron in ice water. He bared his fangs at the Omega in front of him, and the man keened in the back of his throat. He tentatively brought his hand to Jaskier’s cheek, feeling the heat radiating off him in waves. “Tell me, little lark, why did you hide this?”

The bard let out a shuddering breath, shivering at the White Wolf’s touch, “I-I knew that me accompanying you was already a l-lot for you…you definitely wouldn’t have let me if you knew my Omega status…” Jaskier’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. “I wanted to stay with you, Geralt. Ever since I saw you in that dark corner shining as bright as the moon, it was all I ever wanted.”

_Wanted._

The last thread of Geralt's patience snapped like a bow pulled too tight, and he yanked the human into his lap, growling possessively. He ran his thumb down Jaskiers's neck and pressed on his scent gland, and the _noise_ that erupted from that throat was insane and downright filthy. He brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it, tasting the sweat, tasting his scent, and Geralt's eyes threatened to roll back in his head. He buried his nose in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply, hands roaming down the lithe body in front of him, music coming from the Omega like he was being played like an instrument, hands going straight to the bard's ass, and he found that he was wet, downright soaked. 

If Geralt were green he may have just ruined his breeches. 

He brought his face back up, locking his gold eyes on the other’s, scanning for any hesitance, any regret. He found none. 

Jaskier brought his hands slowly to Geralt’s face, tracing the bone of his brow down to the cut of his jaw, and leaned in to slowly press his lips against him. A moan passed through his soft pink lips, against the Witcher’s own, and Geralt wrapped his strong arms around that slender waist and pulled him flush, chest to chest, heart to heart. Desire crashed over them like waves on a beach, and the pair slowly lowered themselves down to the ground. 

The Witcher’s hands roamed without restraint, mapping every juncture and curve before becoming unsatisfied with the fabric between them, and he coaxed the bard to remove his clothing. When he went to unlace his breeches, a shaky pale hand stopped him before taking his place, slowly unlacing him and simultaneously taking him apart from the inside out. 

When they were both bare to each other and the wilderness, time seemed to have frozen. They had seen each other without clothes numerous times. But in this context, in this instant, it was foreign. Geralt sat back and raked his eyes down Jaskier’s body, taking in the brown curls on his chest and the trail it made down to the hair surrounding his manhood. Down to strong legs and an ankle that no longer seemed to be causing him difficulty. In the flickering firelight, below the moon and stars, the bard appeared ethereal. 

Under his attentive watch, Jaskier moaned softly in appreciation, moving towards the Alpha and running his hands up strong arms, across a broad chest, up to the nape of his neck and tangling his fingers gently in white locks. It felt like Geralt had been struck by lightning or had downed one of his Witcher potions. It was as if electricity was running through his veins. And the grip on the bard's hips was almost as if he was trying to push that electricity into the Omega, like completing a circuit. 

A few good minutes was just spent with the two of them melting into each other, exploring with their fingertips and lips, until Jaskier emitted a needy noise and grinded himself into Geralt. 

“Geralt... _Alpha,_ ” and Geralt was _high_ off of this, “I need you, please, I need you to give me what I need…”

The White Wolf slid his hands to the cleft of the bard's ass, dipping his fingers into the slick building up between the cheeks, teasing his rim, “And what do you need?” He growled it right onto Jaskier's jaw, and the other shook like a leaf. 

“D-don’t play dumb, it doesn't suit you,” he panted. 

“Maybe I want to hear my little Omega beg, hm?” Geralt smirked against his cheek, licking over to his ear and toying with the lobe. “Can you beg for your Alpha?”

“Please, Geralt, my Alpha, my White Wolf, I need you. Everything that you have, I want to have it. I'm greedy for you.” _I'm greedy for your love._ “I want your knot, please.” As Jaskier was saying these things, he was gyrating against the other, doing his best to _show_ Geralt how much he meant it. 

And Geralt is only a Witcher.

He caught Jaskier's lips with his own and slid a finger past the other’s rim, and a moan was released that was absolutely decadent. The two slid against each other, channeling their wants and their desires for each other. With each movement of his fingers, Geralt felt Jaskier melt even further, and it spurred him on at full speed, inserting another and beginning to scissor and twist until the bard's body was shining with perspiration and nothing but his scent filtered through the air, and Geralt _swore_ that if anyone or anything approached them at the moment he would strangle them with their entrails for trying to ruin a perfect moment like this. 

A moment with Jaskier, high off his heat, flushed from head to toe and glistening in the firelight, beads of sweat rolling from his neck to the hair on his chest and disappearing. Brown locks frizzy and curling and sticking to him, brows furrowed and kiss-bruised lips parted for air. And eyes, light blue eclipsed by black, and shining so brilliantly with adoration for the Witcher. 

Geralt never allowed himself fantasies. It didn't make much sense for him, considering his lifestyle. But a fleeting thought that always returned was a moment to be had like this. Geralt wasn't blind, even if it appeared that he only bedded women, he could recognize the attractiveness of the bard---anyone with eyes could. And despite his loudness and complete capability of getting himself into trouble, he had grown on Geralt. 

And he wasn't letting that go. Not now, not ever, not if he could help it. 

He pushed his Alpha need to _take_ down for just a brief moment, enough to get them both over to a bedroll to lay across. Jaskier's legs were wobbly, so Geralt guided him, steady and firm, laying him down as if he was precious cargo. He crawled over the bard, slotting himself against the burning body like a puzzle piece, cradling the back of his head with one hand and propping himself with his elbow of his other arm. They kissed lazily, slowly building the heat between them once more, until the bard spoke up.

“Geralt, _please_ , as much as I adore the doting, I don't know how much longer I'm going to last at this rate.” Jaskier cracked a smile, “Have mercy.”

Geralt gave a thoughtful hum, eyes shining like liquid metal, before kissing his way down the Omega’s body, relishing in the fingers on his scalp, the breathy moans coming from above him. He stopped at a nipple, toying it between his teeth as the other was being tended to by his fingers. Jaskier cried out softly, rolling his hips up into the hard body above him. The Witcher continued his descent down, scraping his teeth against the bone of Jaskier's hip, inhaling his sent at the joining of his thigh, running a thick stripe of his tongue along the leaking cock that was laying heavy, red and ignored between toned thighs. Jaskier babbled something unintelligible as a new coating of stick starting flowing from his backside. Two large hands raised his thighs up and part before slipping under his bottom, raising him up, and Geralt licked a slow trail along his perineum before tracing the hole of his rim and inserting his tongue. 

“H-holy _shit,_ Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice had risen an octave or two, hands flying to seek purchase on _anything_ to ground himself, finally settling on scratching his nails into the dirt. Slick began slipping out more freely, saturating his skin and the bedroll beneath them, coating Geralt’s mouth and chin. The Alpha growled pleasingly deep in Geralt, knowing the Omega was enjoying himself, and he replaced his tongue with two fingers that slid _so_ easily inside before a third joined them. He turned his wrist, crooked his fingers _just so_ , and Jaskier came with a _thwump_ of the back of his head against the bedroll and a yell of Geralt’s name, coating his abdomen with his spend. 

Geralt had to grip the base of his cock to scrape back up whatever bit of control he had left. And it increased his arousal to see that Jaskier’s own had barely flagged at all. 

“P-please, Alpha, fill me, I need more…” Jaskier sounded breathless and completely gone, like he was having an out of body experience, rubbing at the wetness at his eyes. 

Geralt sat on his knees and pulled Jaskiers closer to him, and Jaskier wrapped his legs around him. With cock in hand, Geralt entered the bard's body slowly, breath leaving his lungs in a big whoosh of air at the warm velvet surrounding him. Jaskier was a mess above him, eyes rolled up into his head and biting his bottom lip, legs quaking around the Witcher’s hips. 

A tear rolled down the side of his temple and, if Geralt could not smell the obvious state of arousal around them both, he would have assumed that the man below him was in pain. 

But still. 

“Jaskier…is this alright?”

Because he would _never_ forgive himself if he caused him pain. 

Jaskier gave a curt nod, eyes cracking open, “Oh yes, it's _lovely_ . I've never felt so full in my life.” He raised his hands to the Witcher's arms and scratched down, leaving red welts in their wake. “Full of _my Witcher_ ,” he crooned.

And Jaskier _knew_ that was a risky move. Placing claim on this legendary specimen rocking into him. Sure, wanting to claim his second gender, his innate instincts, that was one feral thing in itself. But to lay claim to him as a _person_?

What he didn't realize was how much that legendary specimen _wanted_ to have someone claim and want him as much as he does them. 

And Geralt saw red. 

He growled, teeth baring, and moved Jaskier's legs from around his waist to over his shoulder, effectively bending the man in half. Said man moaned loudly at the change of angle. 

And so, their dance began. 

The night was filled with the symphony of their music, the slapping of skin, moans and groans and growls, Geralt's baritone words of affection, Jaskier's pleading for the Alpha to _never_ stop, and _oh, right there_ , and _my Alpha_ . And Geralt's mind was completely torn up and _lost_ in the heat of Jaskier's insides, the words spilling from red lips, the slick spilling from _Jaskier_ . Everything was _Jaskier_ and nothing else mattered. Geralt licked and touched wherever he could, grinding deep into the Omega beneath him, submerging himself in orange and spice. 

And yeah, maybe the Alpha in him wanted to flip Jaskier over, put him face down and ass up and fuck him into next week. But Jaskier's _face._

A blush high on his cheeks, eyes completely glazed over and almost always rolling upwards (and when they weren't, they were crossed), mouth open with such _sweet_ sounds leaking from it. His hair was such a wreck, tears leaking freely from sensation. 

Geralt returned the bard's legs to his waistline and laid flush against him, the bard whining in delight at the pressure on his forgotten erection and from the sensuous grind of the man's cock in his ass. He could feel the Witcher's knot starting to catch on his rim, and each time caused his breath to hitch and his dick to produce more clear fluid from its head. 

He pulled Geralt's face to his neck, babbling mostly incoherently, until he _finally_ started speaking actual words again, “G-Geralt, oh _holy_ f-fuck! Please, I need your knot, _please_.”

And who is Geralt to deny him?

A quick few snaps of his hips and he was emptying himself into the bard beneath him, his knot sealing everything inside. Geralt saw nothing and everything at once, growling low as he nuzzled below Jaskier’s ear and grinding up against him, as if he could somehow go even deeper than he was. And Jaskier came with a shout, the Witcher’s name on his tongue and in his throat, arms wrapped tightly around Geralt’s ribs and nails leaving deep red crescents on his skin. 

They laid together for a while, sweat laying across their skin like dew on the grass in early hours, and they lazily kissed as they waited for Geralt’s knot to recede. Once it had, he gently removed himself as both parties moaned softly, and he laid on his side next to Jaskier on the bedroll. Jaskier turned to his side as well, tucking himself into Geralt’s body, head under his chin.

“My heat wasn’t due for another week…” Jaskier murmured sleepily, “I s’pose the stress from earlier tripped it…”

“Hmm,” was Geralt’s reply, stroking up and down the younger man’s back. “How long do they tend to last for you?” 

“About four days at most, but with a competent Alpha they only last two days.”

“Guess we need to find someone competent.”

Jaskier playfully slapped his shoulder and Geralt chuckled under his breath. The smell of citrus and spice and warm wood was still in the air, but there was something else too. A mixture of Jaskier and maybe someone, something else?

“Not that you asked, but to me, you smell like campfire smoke and leather...I think it’s quite nice,” Jaskier answered, as if reading his mind. “And maybe a little bit of pine…” He purred lowly, shifting himself closer and closing his eyes.

Geralt quirked his lips up at that, reaching for the blanket that the bard was using earlier that evening and covering the both of themselves to the best of his ability. Tomorrow they will discuss where to go from here. But for now, they were both buzzing with feeling, and it made for a wonderful thing to sleep to.


End file.
